


The Dying of a Day

by sekiharatae



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Death speaks in ALL CAPS, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23864152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sekiharatae/pseuds/sekiharatae
Summary: On the Discworld, there is truth in every figure of speech.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	The Dying of a Day

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on ff.net under my Komagata Yumi pseudonym for various reasons that are no longer necessary or applicable. So here it is under Tae.

“HUMANS WOULD CALL THIS BEAUTIFUL,” the tall, thin figure remarked. “ALL THE COLORS AND SHADOWS AND SUCH. THE SHIFT OF LIGHT AND THE ROLLING OF THE CLOUDS.”

“SQUEAK.” The limited vocabulary of the figure’s tiny companion didn’t stop it – him – from conveying an extreme lack of interest in the topic of human perception. “SQUEAK,” it added again after a long moment of silence.

“I AM NOT BIASED. I AM WELL READ. THERE IS MUCH POETRY AND PROSE DEVOTED TO THE BEAUTY OF SUNSET.”

“SQUEAK. SQUEAK?”

“I CREATED MY HOME MANY YEARS AGO,” the figure retorted, sounding just a touch testy, “I WAS NOT AS WELL READ BACK THEN, NOR WAS MY SENSE OF ARTISTRY AS DEVELOPED.” One long, bony finger came up to rub an equally bony chin, the gesture vaguely sheepish. 

“SQUEAK.”

“I NEVER CLAIMED TO BE AN INTERIOR DECORATOR. BUT BLACK AND WHITE ARE MY COLORS.”

His small companion’s only reply was a faint, whistling chortle of laughter. Giving the minikin a reproving tap on the head, the black robed skeleton returned his attention to the lowering sun. Gauging the time to be close, he picked up his scythe.

“SQUEAK?”

“IT IS A METAPHOR,” came the reply.

“SQUEAK?”

“ONCE A YEAR SEEMS TO SATISFY.”

The sun dipped below the edge of the Disc. At the last possible movement, Death swung his scythe, severing day from night, the blade striking with a sound like the softest sighs. Then he turned, the Death of Rats riding on his shoulder, and walked away.


End file.
